


La Dolce Vita

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rome wraps anonymity around their shoulders like a cloak as they roam its dark alleys, exchanging caresses under lampposts, holding hands as they walk.</i>
</p><p> </p><p><b>A/N</b>: Written for <span><a href="http://book-las.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://book-las.livejournal.com/"><b>book_las</b></a></span> for the prompt ‘a difficult choice’. This is for <span></span><a href="http://pyrites-gold.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://pyrites-gold.livejournal.com/"></a><b>pyrites_gold</b>, who gave me this lovely book. I hope you like it, bb!</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Dolce Vita

  
Rome is heady and sweet, like an unfamiliar wine that you drink too quickly, that curls warmly inside you like a dog settling down before a hearth. Oliver loves it. He’s _in_ love with Rome, with its fragrant nights, with its cynical expatriate writers, with Elio.

Rome wraps anonymity around their shoulders like a cloak as they roam its dark alleys, exchanging caresses under lampposts, holding hands as they walk. The city doesn’t care about one boy pushing another against a wall and kissing him. Not as long as they remain anonymous. He pins Elio’s wrists above his head against the cool, rough stonework and fucks him with a spit-slicked finger, swallowing his moans, their bodies moving against each other, frantic with desire. They stop before they come, their arousal like a light that must not be allowed to go out, not on this night. They make obscene jokes about wandering the streets with hard-ons, their laughter drifting ahead of them as they walk.

He still hasn’t told Elio about the girl he might marry.

There really is no choice in the matter. Elio must be told, now, now while they’re drunkenly wandering the streets of old Rome, now, the night before Oliver returns to Columbia. The word conjures the university, his little apartment above the shop that sells second-hand books, the dismal, oily coffee that he stands in line for at the cafeteria on the days he oversleeps and doesn’t have time to brew his own. He wonders if the memory of Elio will be beside him, ghostlike, when he returns home, sharing his everyday tasks, watching over his shoulder as he prepares his notes for his next lecture, as he pleasures himself while thinking of Elio’s cock filling him up, as the girl he might marry rides him on his narrow wooden bed.

He watches Elio cavort in the Trevi Fountain like Anita Ekberg in _La Dolce Vita_. He watches as Elio raises his face to the water and parts his lips to let it in, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way he shakes the water from his hair and shouts over his shoulder, ‘Come on in, the water’s fine!’ As though they were still at the beach near Elio’s home, as though the sun were still shining down on them as they swam wearing each other’s bathing suits, as though the summer weren’t ending right now, on this night before Oliver has to leave.

Elio turns in a half-circle in the thigh-deep water, fingertips trailing over its rippling surface, to face Oliver. ‘Are you coming, or what?’ he grins. Oliver climbs over the rim of the fountain and splashes his way to the centre. The fountain roars noisily, discouraging conversation.

Elio’s wet hands slide inside his pants, and Oliver doesn’t tell him about the girl he might marry.


End file.
